Page 25 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

I rested my bag on the bed and looked around, realizing I had not really admired the room the first time I’d been there. I trailed my fingers over the four-poster, feeling the intricate carving before I flopped on the bed like a starfish.

This was a nice house, and while I didn’t know all the ins and outs of how it ran, I knew that even here, I could not dare make any waves. I still had to keep my head down and stay out of any spotlights.

Levering up, I disrobed and tugged on a pair of thick jeans and a long-sleeved striped blouse. After putting on a pair of thick socks and getting into my shoes, I left my cell to charge before heading down to the backyard, and from the back porch, I looked around.

The land was gorgeous, and with the sun on its western descent in the cloudless sky, it threw the lands into such sharp contrasts. The distant rolling green hills were full of blooming, vibrant wildflowers in an array of colors, surrounded by forests of deep evergreen that led up to gray peaks spearing the blue sky.

“You’re here,” Warrick said. “On time too.”

And then I took in what he was wearing. The man stood out worse than a sore thumb. Unlike his compatriots, who were in jeans, cowboy boots, and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, he was dressed in black sweats that rode indecently low on his lean hips. An Iron-Man gray tank top with the sides cut out displayed his ripped chest muscles and sneakers.

Warrick turned and gestured toward a big, red building with an enormous door that was wide and tall enough for a truck to easily drive through—and when I stepped into the room, that was what I found.

“Is that a tractor?” I gawped.

“Yes,” Warrick replied. “Sometimes when a bull is injured or dies, we don’t have the manpower to haul him off to the rendering plant, so we use the tractor. I know other ranches do it differently. Some bury, some burn, and some even leave the animal to rot and feed wildlife. When we choose to bury, though, we have to mind the water table under the land. We cannot afford to contaminate it.”

The place was massive. The scents of hay, horse sweat, and manure saturated the air, and the stalls were outfitted with seamless wooden walkways and generous horse stalls. The stables stretched much farther back than I originally realized. To the far left, I saw a large enclosure with a shower head, washing bins, and a file cabinet with a red cross slapped on it. I assumed that was a medicine case.

Some of the horses, five out of thirty-five, he told me, were out in the paddock or in the meadow, and the rest stood in their stalls. A few of them poked their heads out over the stall doors as if to say hello as we passed them.

“Eeep!” I leaped a foot in the air when I felt thick, wet lips nibbling on the side of my neck. I yanked my head away; my blood was somewhere in the soles of my feet.

A chestnut horse’s lips were flexing, and somehow, I believed it was laughing at me. I slapped a hand to the side of my neck, shivering. “W-what the heck was that!”

“Honey here likes your hair,” Warrick tried to keep his face stoic, but the constant tick of lips told me he was laughing at me too. He rested a hand on the horse’s head. “Isn’t that right, old girl?”

Swallowing over the jitters in my stomach, I asked, “How old is she?”

“Twelve,” he replied. “Horses are termed old when they’re between fifteen and twenty years old, and while some do live into their thirties, you can consider them to be as old as your great grandpappy out there in the sun, chewing tobacco and rocking in his chair.”

“That’s a…” I paused. “…curious analogy.”

“It’s a fitting one, though,” Warrick said while unlocking the gate and pulling the horse out. “Keep her here.”

“Wait? What?” My head snapped around to follow Warrick into an open room that held two saddles, and based on the tins and straps on the wall, other things for horses. I turned back to the horse inches away, and I eyed those lips. “Stay where you are—” I backed up. “—don’t come any closer.”

Her neck stretched, she searched and sniffed, and her hoof clattered on the floor as Honey approached. I kept backing up until my back rammed into a wall, and there was nowhere to escape. I clenched my eyes and held my hands out, but cringed when I felt the horse’s nose nudge my cheek.

“All right, all right,” Warrick came closer and nudged the death horse away. “C’mon girl, stop scaring the help. If she faints, I’ll be blaming you.”

I felt the mare retreat, and I took a breath, forcing my eyes open to see Warrick lifting a brush. He began to groom the horse with firm, confident strokes. The mare swished her tail and stomped a hoof, but he didn’t flinch.

Pressing a hand to my chest, I stood still as he saddled the horse and then patted Honey on her neck. “There you go, now wait for me.”

Again, I watched as he saddled another horse, a big black beast of a horse that had thighs thicker than tree trunks.

“Come on,” he gestured to me. “Let’s get you into that saddle.”

Swallowing nervously, I nodded and stood on the left side of the horse. He took my hand and placed it on the horn. “Grasp that and put the foot of your dominant leg in the stirrup.”

I wrapped my hand around the horn, stuck my toe into the stirrup, tried to heave myself up, and tipped backward. My hand lost its grip, and I slipped, ready to fall on my rump—but Warrick grabbed me.

“You need to stop second-guessing yourself,” he said, his words hot and rumbly in my ear. “You need to do it quickly, and horses will shift without notice to compensate for that. Try again.”

“Okay.”

“Ready?” Warrick asked. “I’m behind you.”

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